rojo, te odio
by Cometas Por El Cielo
Summary: Cecelia never did have an affinity for the color red. Written for Caesar's Palace prompts color challenge


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hunger Games.

Written for Caesar Palace Prompts color prompts series; Red.

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**rojo****, te odio**

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Cecelia never did like the color red.

As a child, a shrill scream escaped her lips at the sight of a bloody scraped knee. She was afraid. She was terrified. Eventually she outgrew this fear of blood; but a lack of fear doesn't mean a presence of enjoyment.

Her father died when she was small girl, buried in an awful red shirt that made hideous his copper waves. She never did understand why her stepmother had him buried in that. His black shirt always looked nicer on him.

Red was the color of anger, the color she swore her stepmother saw when she looked upon her face. It's not that her stepmother hated her; she just would have much preferred Cecelia dead than her late husband.

Her little half-brother liked to take her stepmother's lipstick and draw on the walls. Cecelia never did have the courage to tell that it was him leaving red marks on the dirty, grimy walls instead of her. It's not like she'd be believed anyway, so she never bothered to waste her breath. The spankings weren't even too bad. Her stepmother was never a hard hitter.

Her older sister took the blue hair ribbon on the day of her seventh reaping. She had to take the red.

Blood red hair and lips are all Cecelia remembered of the Capitol man who called her name at the reaping.

~.*~.*~.*

Red soon became the color of her training uniform, an airy one piece with a big black 8 slapped on the back of it.

Red was the color of the District 4 girl's fingernails. She gave Cecelia the creeps times a thousand. Muriel, her name was.

Muriel liked to use the red-handled sword in training. There were no adjectives to describe the excellence of her skill.

Cecelia hated the red bed sheets on the District 8 floor. It made more sense to her for them to be a sensible white. After all, would she not be seeing nothing but red once she entered the arena?

The first thing that Cecelia saw in the arena was a red backpack. The second thing was the blood and organ of the boy who stepped off of his platform just four seconds too early.

The first girl Cecelia killed was a pretty redhead from District 9. She didn't want to do it, but she girl would have just killed her instead. She saw even more red when she killed the other three tributes that she had to kill in order to reach the final two. There is no morality in the arena.

The District 2 boy was her final opponent. He was a redhead as well.

Blood blinded Cecelia's vision while she and the District 2 boy tried to outlive each other after that final showdown. The red liquid was everywhere. Neither tribute could tell whose blood was whose, nor could they tell who had lost the most. Maybe it was about equal.

Cannon sounded. Cecelia won. She fainted and fell into a pool of red.

~.*~.*~.*

Cecelia fell in love with a ginger. Yes, a ginger. Her husband had brilliant red hair that made his cerulean blues pop as if they belonged on a painting. He didn't care that she killed. He didn't care that there was blood on her hands. He just loved her. He loved. _Her._

Their first child, their son, had his father's red hair but his mother's curls. She loved her little boy.

Their daughters were also redheads. Her little redheads were her world, her heart, and her soul.

For a short time, she enjoyed the color red because it reminded her of her children and the warmth of the passion that it took to create them.

For a deliciously short while, she didn't mind the color at all.

~.*~.*~.*

As good thing often must, her appreciation for red came to an end with the announcement of the 3rd Quarter Quell. She sobbed into her husband's shirt, but not after she'd tried to slit her wrists. She couldn't cut quite deep enough to just _kill herself _before Snow could have the chance to.

She apologized for the stains in her husband's white shirt. He told her not to be ridiculous.

Scarlet fever. Her littlest one fell ill with _scarlet _fever. Her illness took her sight in one eye, but at least it spared her life.

The anger she felt upon hearing her name at the District 8 Victor's reaping festered in her very core. She desired nothing more than the spilling of the blood of the top Capitol politicians and bureaucrats.

The irony behind her death was too perfect to make up. Cecelia died in the bloodbath, struck down by Brutus. Brutus. Mentor of the boy whom she killed to win. Vengeance? Probably not. But ironic? Oh, yes.

The last thing she saw was her blood on his shoe.


End file.
